


Troubled Sands

by Kit_SummerIsle



Series: War Brides [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Barbarian!AU, Desert, Kidnapping, M/M, Praxians, Sticky, Violence, dub-con, mate-napping, nomadic AU, non-war Cybertron, tribal warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl has quite enough problems without this mech they picked up in the last battle. But Jazz is determined to give them a headache of epic proportions... but he is also a mate any of them would take on any orn. Who will win this battle which is not a battle they could win and claim a mate who is much more than a mate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Swords of Destiny](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3715183/chapters/8225266) runs parallel with this fic and the events there will eventually collide with the happenings here - so it's useful to read both to get the full picture.

Prowl stood over the carnage with brows drawn together. He didn’t like unexpected events, be them stray dust-storms in the wrong season or a city-caravan appearing unexpectedly on their path from the thick haze. All in all he would have preferred the dust storm. The caravan had many fine goods the tribe could use, but it came with a cost – two warriors were laid on the hard ground, stripped of useful things and their energon, along with the city-mechs’ frames. It was two too many in a tribe as small as the Praxians. They suffered heavily in the last clan-wars, the tribe nearly destroyed and Prowl had to take the lead before he was anywhere near ready. His Sire was a good chieftain, a great warrior… but stray energy-beams in a battle didn’t care whom they found and destroyed. Prowl was Heir, but just that – he still had decavorns before he was ready to take his Sire’s staff and lead the warriors.

But he had to. With two thirds of the tribe deactivated, almost all the elders and leading warriors, most of their possession lost along with their renown, Prowl had to keep the beaten survivors together and lead them on the long way of rebuilding the tribe. Find them good hunting grounds, keep them away from the stronger tribes that could finish the job, away from the cities who increasingly wanted to punish any tribe for others’ sins… for the city dwellers they were all the same, one nomad like the other and many harassed cities for energon, tools and lately… mechs.

“Check the caravan for survivors.” – he ordered his mechs quietly.

Praxians never kidnapped from the cities. Hardly ever from other tribes too, they were always concerned about the CNA-lines, their unique heritage and Praxian frametype. Fresh CNA came from Vos occasionally, but they were now far from the only friendly city and many inimical ones stood on their way back. Right now he would allow claiming if a mech from the caravan somehow survived. Too many mates were lost, too many tents stood empty and too few younglings played amongst them. They had no future if they could not grow. A few wingless sparklings from necessary unions would still carry Praxian CNA and in the future, with careful breeding, the gene-pool could be restored. Survival was first now.

“There’s a track away. One has escaped.”

Prowl looked at the young warrior and nodded. Callsign was a not a good tracker and he waved the younger one to help with the salvage effort. The caravan was systematically dismantled and stripped, the loot quickly stuffed into cargo spaces for later distribution. There was plenty of work to be done with as few as they were. Later he would have to think of training new trackers – another role they had lacking lately. Along with a healer they sorely missed and elders keeping the tribe’s history of wanderings.

“Pick everything useful, including survivors. We’ll go on before we can make camp.” 

The pede-steps were smeared, like the mech who left them made an effort to hide them. Prowl hummed and followed the faint marks. It was rare to see a city-mech who would even think of tracks after a battle, much less one who would survive an encounter with a nomadic tribe. Definitely not to be underestimated. Following the scuffed pede-prints on the reddish ground Prowl fell into hunting mode. It was like stalking a dangerous predator… but he was one too.

The mech couldn’t have gone far in the scant three breems since the caravan succumbed to their attack and there was nothing to hide him out here. This place was flat and bare for orns in every direction, offering no shelter from storms, like the one that has slammed into them unexpectedly, nor any hiding places for even the smallest mechs. Prowl couldn’t see far in the haze of dust that was still all around him, but that just made the hunt even more interesting. Should the city-mech be audacious enough to…

…Prowl’s ducked and drawn his wings close as the sword swished over his helm. Dust swirled around them thickly, so seeing was hard even from up close. The city-mech was brave– or desperate – enough to try and attack him, seeing that his effort to get away was in vain. He hit the raised arm to deflect the next blow and adjusted his stance. The other was smaller than himself but very fast – the sword returned again and this time its point carved a shallow cut into his hip-plates. Prowl hissed at the sudden pain signal, but the move, daring and fast as it was, has put his opponent within reach of his longer arms. 

He grabbed a fistful of plating, a shoulder-joint and yanked the other off his pedes. The sword clattered to the ground as his grip tightened on the limb, a pained hiss emerging from the smaller mech’s vocalizer. Bright blue visor flashed as he wrestled the mech to the ground. He fought fiercely against Prowl, but he had no chance against the larger mech and his stronger grip. Prowl slowly but surely pinned him to the dusty ground and twisted a length of a cable around the arms. The struggling intensified and Prowl felt the first flashes of fear appear in his field.

“I won’t harm you.”

“Slag off!” – the voice was shrill with fear but determined.

“I won’t let you go either.”

Prowl replied calmly as he continued to bind the mech securely. 

“Whattha’ frag do ya want?”

The smaller mech secured, Prowl sat back on his heels to give him some space. He would have preferred to have this conversation later, after seeing the tribe to a safe camp, but the mech deserved an answer. A true one, however much he wouldn’t like it…

“We cannot let you go to bring the city’s wrath on us. And we need mechs. Mates for the warriors. We’re few.”

“We were just a peaceful trading caravan! We didn’t attack you, nor did we take anything from your tribe!”

“It was unfortunate.” 

Prowl paused. The encounter was completely unplanned from both sides and his forward warriors just fell onto the caravan appearing from the dust-haze. Things afterwards went as expected with the battle and eventually the caravan’s demise, much as he didn’t plan on it.

“We didn’t plan on this either, but now we have to deal with it.”

“Ya killed them all!”

“It was a battle.”

“It was slaughter! They didn’t have a chance! Ya’re murderers!”

“We thought it was another tribe. We were decimated recently and my warriors didn’t want to take chances.”

The other mech paused, nodding his helm to the side. Under the smeared red dust and energon Prowl thought he was black and maybe white, just like his own colours. He decided to take that as a sign, though he would of course uphold the law.

“And why did ya came after me then?”

“You would bring the cities’ wrath on us, which we cannot afford right now. Besides, as I said, we need mates.”

“What?” – the smaller mech tried to squirm away, but the bonds held him fast – “I dun wanna be anymech’s mate! Much less yours! Lemmego!”

“I won’t. We need mates. It’s the law.”

“Not my slagging law!”

“No.” – Prowl agreed calmly – “But it is ours. You’ll be taken in our tribe, stay in my tent. My warriors can court you, it’s their right, just like it’s yours to choose among them.”

The smaller mech was dumbfounded, that much was obvious from his mouth hanging open as he gaped at Prowl. It took him a few kliks to collect his wits again and retort. Prowl had to admit he didn’t like the suddenly dangerous, calm and plotting feel of his field, though the visor still completely hid his optics and his expression.

“And if I choose none?”

Prowl nodded his helm. So he was a sly one, already worked through his chances and cut to the spark of it. He would like such a mate, even if his wasn’t a Praxian frame. Prowl tucked that wish into the back corner of his processor. 

“Desert law.”

“What does that mean?”

“The desert decides whether you may live or die.”

“I might like those odds better…” – the smaller mech murmured, calmer now.

Prowl nodded. It was sometimes so and he couldn’t help it. Some mechs just weren’t cut out to be a nomad mate. It was just one of the reasons Praxians so rarely took other mechs, especially city-dwellers, into the tribe. Prowl’s Sire disapproved of that practice, saying that city-dwellers rarely ever made good nomads and never good Praxians. Prowl had thought that as unnecessary prejudice, but had held his vocalizer on the subject while Maxus lived.

“I’m sure you’ll decide well.”

He lifted the bound mech to his shoulder, starting back to the tribe. He was satisfied with the work they’ve done in his absence – the signs of a caravan and the battle were now completely gone and his mechs waited him to continue with their journey. Many of them watched the mech on his shoulder interestedly and Prowl squashed the mote of hot jealousy that flashed in his spark. He was a chieftain now. It wouldn’t be proper to just claim the mech now, much as he would like it. After all, he had fought, signaling his disapproval of Prowl.

“We move on till dark. Let’s go.”

Smokescreen was of course the first to approach him as they started out. His half-brother shamelessly used every advantage that came from being related to the chieftain of the tribe – some said maybe too much. 

“He was be the one trying to escape?”

“Yes. He tried to fight me off too.”

Smokescreen’s flash of optics was hard to miss. The younger mech has never had a mate and now with the tribe in shambles as it was he had little chance against the more experienced elder warriors.

“So he’s free to claim?”

“Hey! Ah’m right here! And Ah’m NOT free to claim by any of ya!”

Prowl smothered a smirk. The small mech would be a challenge to claim by any as he already knew. Smokescreen nodded towards him and his servo lightly stroked the mech’s flanks, undeterred by Prowl’s glower and the mech’s shouted protest as they walked on. No mech dared to transform with this much dust still in the air, it would be suicide on joints and axles.

“Get yer servo offa me, brute!”

“I mean he’s free to court, right, Prowl?

“No, Ah’m NOT!”

“Little mech, if the chief says so, it is so.”

“Ye’re the chief of the tribe?”

“Yes I am. My designation is Prowl and we are the Praxians. And yes, Smokescren, he is free to court.”

“I claim dibs.”

“Ye’re outta it!”

They both stared at the mouthy mech on Prowl’s shoulder. Did he _mean_ what he said? Did he _know_ what he said? It would indubitably be the shortest courtship on record if he did. Prowl fought to keep his lips from twitching to a smirk as he hefted the mech on his shoulder. He liked the… spunk.


	2. Chapter 2

Prowl shifted the mech again on his shoulder. He was small and not heavy, but their plating was certainly not compatible.

“Ya know it’d be much easier if you’d let me walk.”

“Easier to escape again?”

“That too, but Ah mean talking. Ah can’t see yer faces and when ya fell silent like now, it, well, it unnerves me.”

“Very well.”

Prowl let the mech down from his shoulder, making him sit on the ground. His still tender sensor wing welcomed the lack of weight on it. He fashioned a short leash from the cable and tied it securely to the still bound servos on one end and to his own at the other. Only then he untied the legs and helped the mech to stand. He immediately scooted as far from him as the leash allowed – but Prowl noted that he kept Smokescreen away from his as well.

“Thanks mech. Yer shoulder is… pointy.”

“I can assure you that the position wasn’t comfortable to me either.”

“You shudda just lemme go.”

“I already explained why I couldn’t. Now. Can we have your designation?”

“If I tell ya, does it have any significance I should be aware of first?”

“Prowl, we should just call him Mouthy.”

“Hey!?!” - came the indignant shout.

“Indeed.” – Prowl fought very hard not to laugh. Between Smokescreen and the newly nicknamed mech he was sure the next few orns wouldn’t be boring – “And no, it’s just courtesy.”

They walked in a brisk pace now and Prowl noted that more and more of the warriors drifted close to them, opticking the short mech between them with interest. As soon as they made camp he’d have to clear the situation to all. The mech noticed it as well and wasn’t in the least calmed by it.

“Courtesy, my aft… kidnapping is not courteous at all! It’s Jazz by the way.”

“It is in the desert.”

“So ya lot just go round raping mechs? I must admit Ah never believed those tales they tell ‘bout nomads in Protihex.”

He probably didn’t understand the sudden jerk of two sets of sensory wings, but the tribe did. They suddenly had a lot more attention in the waning, evening light.

“NO! We don’t… _rape_ … anymech.”

Prowl tried to convey his shock in his tone too and his wings stood stiffly outwards.

“But ya kidnap mechs and make them yer mates, you said, right? That’s…”

“That’s not rape! You say no and nomech will touch you.”

“Okay, so I say no right now. Now lemme go home.”

“It doesn’t… quite work that way.” – Smokescreen added hesitantly.

“I’ll explain it later when we made camp. We must hurry now.”

Prowl was worried about the waning light. True, it was still dusty after the storm and it could have caused the early darkness, but if a rain caught them without a camp…

“Smokescreen go forward and find a place to camp fast. That darkness to the east could be clouds.”

“Just our luck…” – his half-brother murmured as he transformed with hisses as the sand got into seams – “…to have an acid storm right after a dust storm.”

They barely made it. Half a joor later, on a miserably low mound of ground they found they just started to throw up the tents when the ice-cold acid droplets started to bombard the ground. 

“Hurry up! Share tents if you must!”

It was too cold and Prowl was worried about the rain turning into hail. While rain was generally fairly weak acid, it could still cause damage and they had some mechs with injuries. Hail would be even worse on their hastily put up tents, some of them weaker than others. 

Prowl pushed his captive into his tent as soon as it stood and waited until he saw the last frames disappear into theirs, bar the unfortunate guards who had to make do with acidproof covers. Smokescreen and Rivers was sharing his space now and as he ducked through the entrance flap he saw a strange scene inside. Rivers has lit the small crystal already and in the flickering light Prowl saw them sitting comfortably on a blanket, while Jazz pushed himself to a corner, back plates to the tent wall, bound servos lifted in front of him, clearly uncomfortable sitting on the ground. He was valiantly trying not to look frightened, while both warriors stared at him with naked wishfulness.

“Stop it, all of you. Nothing will be decided this evening, nor will anything happen to you, Jazz. We shall eat and recharge.”

“Yeah, right… it was a long orn.”

Rivers broke the staring-fest first, sat back and started to pick the crude patch on his side to see if it still held. Smokescreen pulled out the food box and also gave up opticking Jazz in favour of the food. Prowl motioned the mech closer to sit with them on the blankets, but he was careful also not to come too close. He took out some food and placed it into a bowl, offering it to their… guest. Jazz hesitated only for a klik before picking out a piece, which surprised alls nomads in the tent. 

“You don’t mind eating it?”

Jazz made a grimace, but gamely bit into the flesh, chewing on it as he answered.

“Not mah choice, but Ah’ve been guarding caravans for some vorns now. Out here we don’t always have cubes.”

“Logical.”

“Some mechs keep ta it, but Ah’ve always thought that survival’s more important than strange tasting energon.”

Prowl nodded approvingly. It was an attitude almost nomadic in its simplicity, certainly less complicated like the cities usually handled such things. 

“Is that why you tried to escape too?” – Rivers asked curiously, but he was also frowning a bit.

“Yeah. They had mah services under contract and Ah fought until Ah could, but once we were defeated…” – Jazz shrugged – “Ah don’t owe them mah life.”

This, Prowl couldn’t understand and neither could the others. His tone held disapproval, though he asked, not condemned the mech. Yet.

“But were they not from your city too?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You would… abandon your city-mates?”

“Hey, they weren’t mates or anything. Just some traders from Protihex.”

Prowl frowned at him, like the younger warriors. The air in the tent became colder and not because of the night cycle or the rain.

“One city is… not one tribe?” – he asked slowly – “surely you have your own… tribe?... that you owe your allegiance to?”

Their captive squirmed a bit under their disapproving gaze, but he looked confused too. Prowl could feel it was one of those incomprehensible things he heard about city mechs but never experienced firsthand. 

“We don’t have tribes in the city. Ah have mah family whom Ah would never abandon, but traders are not relatives. They hired me ta do the guarding, but it’s a contract thing, not loyalty.”

“So a city is not like a tribe.”

“No… Ah guess. You’re all like a big family? A clan? Every mech?”

Prowl nodded. Even those who were not born in the tribe were part of it. It was their way. No tribe could survive if they didn’t work together, if they didn’t trust each other.

“Ah guess a city has more mechs. Can’t everymech be family.”

“There are large tribes too. But they are… one as well.”

“Ah guess we’re different.”

Jazz shrugged, visibly not very much concerned about the issue. Prowl found the lack of loyalty coding a lot more worrying. How could they take in somemech who’d not be trustworthy later?

“Let’s talk about it later.” – he suggested after a while – “We should recharge.”

Jazz looked uncomfortable as they drew closer to him and he tried to wriggle out from between the three nomads.

“Stop it. We won’t harm you, but night cycles get very cold here.”

“Ah know…” – but he was still stiff, his field conveying outright unease.

They were pretty far north, way outside the tribe’s usual haunts and unprepared for the cold. The clan wars and the aftermath forced them way up to these parts and Prowl was determined to go back south as fast as they could. With so many of the good tents lost and replaced by hurriedly made, flimsy ones there could be joint infections, cold-sickness or even a rust-plague. Even in the tents they had to huddle together for shared warmth under the few blankets and discard decorum. He tugged the smaller mech between themselves against his reluctance and they lay down for recharge. Prowl was sure Smokescreen’s servos wandered sometime on their guest’s plating, but he was too tired to care and unwilling to wake every mech for discipline. Especially after he heard his brother hiss sharply in the dark – Jazz was apparently not one to take wandering servos calmly. Half already in recharge Prowl smirked slightly again.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning light found the little group of battered tents huddling close and the hurriedly dug trench around them still full of the acidic liquid. Prowl stood outside, holding Jazz by his side and Smokescreen away with an warning glower. The warriors gathered around them fast, many of them watching their guest interestedly. While the tribe so weak most of them could not hope to get a mate any time soon. Not all were really interested, but some of them did.

“Everyone listen. This is Jazz from Protihex. He’ll be our guest for the time being…” – Prowl ignored Jazz’s grumbling how he was an unwilling guest at best – “… and may be courted by those interested.”

Many of the Praxians nodded around them and some sensor-wings signaled interest. Jazz didn’t hide his extreme displeasure. Prowl was tired and his processor already on their next goal so he ignored both. They had to make their way back south but avoid the large tribes on their way and it was hard enough without a… complicated guest involved. Courting was a new concept and he had to make up the rules as they went.

“While we’re on our way he’ll stay with those interested, each in turn. Nothing more is allowed only getting to know each other and courting as yet! When we make a longer camp he’ll be staying in my tent. Smokescreen, you already had your chance and blown it, so shut up.”

He added the last sentence to his shocked-looking brother and suppressed a smirk. The brat deserved it and Prowl was glad for the excuse Jazz inadvertently gave him. Another warrior stepped forward, but Trench didn’t look at Jazz as he asked Prowl. 

“Will we go back south?”

“Yes. We must. But we also must look out for any large tribe. We cannot afford a battle right now. We’ll stop hunting on the way but move on as fast as we can until we find better hunting grounds where we can stay awile.”

Most of his warriors approved. They had their pride as much as any nomads, if no more, but Praxians were realists as well and Prowl’s plan was solid. A large, black mech stepped forward with sensor-wings held proudly behind him and stiffly canted them at Prowl, who suppressed a sigh. He knew Barricade would be among the first to come forward. His Sire warned him many times about the large mech, who had a lot of ambition and little in way of inhibitions. Still, he had as much right as anymech in the tribe… Prowl nodded him back and Barricade addressed Jazz.

“Walk with me this orn… Jazz.”

“Actually, I believe that this orn we can drive, which is good, 'cause it's been ages, I mean the acid rain compacted the dust and it’s solid enough to drive, I know, because I couldn’t recharge long and went out early this morning and it’s perfect for driving and Prowl, I hope we can roll, ‘cause it’s been far too long since we last could and my axles are stiff, even if just part of the orn, but we could go faster and…”

“Thank you, Bluestreak. Of course we can drive.”

Prowl nearly snickered the way Jazz stared at the young Praxian with the steel gray plating. Bluestreak was something… even in the tribe. 

They took down the tents and the tribe quickly formed the line in which they’d drive – with Jazz’s sleek, nearly racerlike alt-mode bound loosely to Barricade’s larger, much more imposing one. Prowl instructed some of the faster mechs to keep a few optics on the smaller mech – that alt-mode spoke of speed and a lot of it, certainly more than what Barricade could handle. The orn promised to be nicer than the ones before it; still colder than he’d’ve liked, but clear of the dust at last. The next camp would see himself and his mechs getting rid of the accumulated grease, debris and dust in joints and seams… at last. Which reminded him…

“Steampunk?”

“I’m here, Prowl.” – an outlandish frame stepped forward, canting his short, stubby wings.

“We’ll need solvents at the next stop.”

“I’ll get on it, chief.”

While most of them with a proper engine could break down crude oil for their own use, some mechs did it more efficiently than most. Steampunk’s designation was actually a nickname that stuck, not only for his frame and decorations, but also he had an engine that could produce high-temperature steam and could crack crude oil properly for a large range of solvents. They rolled out in an orderly procession, with most attention on Barricade and Jazz in the middle of the column. 

Jazz tried to get away three times that day, every time trying to use his speed and agility against Barricade’s greater mass and slowness. That he still had a hidden knife the third time round with which he cut the cable dismayed Prowl a little. What kind of a mech carried half a dozen blades concealed on him in various ways? Surely it wasn’t normal for the city-dwellers? Was he too dangerous? Should he either let him go or finish the job they started with his caravan? But the small mech was all charm and wit between his attempts, easily winning over the often stiff and prim Praxians with his jokes and stories. During this, they could almost forget that he was not a nomad, he had so many of them and told them so well.

But Bluestreak and Sidewise caught him all three times, boxing him in between them, using speed against speed, agility against agility – and their experience in racing in the desert. Once even Prowl himself got involved and he greatly enjoyed the chase in the crystal clear air and the flat, compact ground, so rare for real racing; and so rare for him since having to take the chieftain’s staff. He thought that Jazz, too enjoyed it a little by the end – the only mech grumbling more and more dissatisfied by the evening was Barricade. Every mech in the tribe could see that they would not be a good pair, including him.

But Barricade still tried. Intimidation, when his attempts to entice Jazz met with a disaster, hands-on after Jazz was caught and brought back, bound with stronger cables, insisting that he just wanted to keep him from escaping… and at the end of the orn Prowl saw fit to reiterate to him that if anything forceful happened in his tent during the night cycle, it would be him cast out to the desert with no weapons and food, bereft of his armor at Prowl’s discretion. The black mech didn’t take the warning well either, growling lowly about naïve younglings who were unfit to lead a tribe… but he never dared to call him out or repeat his accusations aloud where the tribe could hear it. 

Prowl felt uncharacteristically tense that night cycle. With his tent now empty and himself alone in it, his thoughts went to the mech Jazz often. Too often if he was honest, in this Barricade was probably right. He should be working on a route to South, putting together every piece of knowledge he learned or just heard from the elders about the other tribes and the general dangers of the far north lands… but instead his thoughts returned to a certain tent and what could be going on there. He didn’t believe that Barricade would go blatantly against traditions and his warning – but he still didn’t like to imagine Jazz in his tent. Forcing himself to concentrate on the problem at servo, Prowl deleted all threads about their guest and focused on his tribe’s problem.

In the morning he was the first to rise – not unusual in general as he was an early riser – but Prowl was eager to see them on their way… and check on Jazz. Barricade’s tent was still silent and the entrance flap closed and Prowl frowned at it before turning to the guards and the returning scouts.

“Nothing to report.”

“There was a storm with lightning far to the east but it didn’t come our way.”

“The way is clear to south. No tracks, no traps, flat ground. We can drive again.”

“I saw a herd of electric snakes, but they’re gone.”

Prowl nodded to the reports, filing them away and his glance strayed to the black tent again.

“Might have been a mistake letting Barricade try first.”

Smokescreen was getting obnoxious, Prowl decided. It was perilously close to questioning his decision in public and he couldn’t allow that.

“Well, with you already wasting your chance he had every right to it.” – he snapped.

“You don’t mean it seriously…?” – Smokescreen was all hurt innocence and incredulous disbelief. Prowl often wondered where he’d inherited so much acting ability. Neither of their creators were like this.

“You heard the mech.”

“But he couldn’t have known…!”

“Jazz clearly wished not to be courted by you. There’s nothing else to it.”

The black tent’s flap snapped open suddenly, as though it was kicked from the inside, drawing their attention immediately to it. Barricade emerged from it, glowering like an angry stormcloud – not an unusual look on him, but this time it was even darker than usual. He yanked on a length of cable and Jazz stumbled out behind him, servos still bound and Prowl for a klik started to turn worried. But then Jazz straightened up and his faceplates literally beamed with bright smile and his visor twinkled with mischievousness. Barricade’s loud gnashing of his denta was audible from across the camp.

Prowl blinked, sensor wings fluttered with uncertainty. Smokescreen stared at the Barricade and his visibly black mood then his glance travelled to the innocently smirking Jazz beside him with something like awe. Barricade pushed Jazz unceremoniously towards Prowl, throwing the end of the cable at the chieftain with a finality that made it wholly unnecessary to ask anything about how it went and stomped off wordlessly growling.

“I don’t think that went… ummm, well.”

Jazz barked a short laugh and answered Smokescreen in a clipped tone.

“I wouldn’t be his mate if it was the end of the world with only the two of us surviving in it.”

Prowl nodded, hiding his relief and schooling his wings back to a neutral position.

“That means somemech else can accompany you this orn.”

Jazz’s answering glance was indescribable, his grimace even less so.

“Ya can throw mechs at me all vorn an’ Ah won’t chose any. But sure, why not. Ah guess Ah can use a vacation.”

“Sidewise?”

“Yes, Prowl. I’d like to try.”

“Jazz… I’m not sure you truly understand the alternative.” – Prowl tried to sound really serious – “Maybe Sidewise can explain it to you while we drive.”

Jazz frowned at him, his cheerful mood faltering for a second, but shrugged after a few kliks and put the smile back.

“Whatever, m’ mech.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Ye aren’t serious! That’s as good as killing them!”

Sidewise signaled assent with his wings. Jazz hasn’t tried to escape this orn – yet – and Sidewise hoped it was because he knew them to be evenly matched in speed. 

“It is a punishment mainly for the most serious offenses. It wouldn’t be effective if it was… gentle.”

“But Ah committed no crime in yer tribe!”

“True, and Prowl probably wouldn’t divest you of your armor – but with no weapons and shelter it’s still pretty much a death sentence for somemech like you.”

From the glower and the scowl, Jazz probably thought the same. Though… the mech did try to escape already, so… Sidewise admitted that he didn’t really understand the smaller city-mech. His moods changed more rapidly than the weather, his ideas were incomprehensible and he had hidden depths a mile deep. 

“Or can you hunt? Read tracks? Hide without a shelter? Predict the rain?”

Jazz cast him a sly look that made Sidewise’s wings shot up.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“If you become one of us – or even if you try to escape – you would need those skills.” – Sidewise countered with a smirk of his own. If it was a bit forced, then, Jazz didn’t seem to notice.

“Let’s just say that it’s not the first time I’ve been in the desert.”

“That’s good. Most city-mechs never go outside.”

Jazz frowned.

“Where did ya hear that? Tho’ Ah admit some never go out, but most? That’s stupid. We trade, we hunt, we plant crystals… most mechs leave th’ walls several times a vorn. Not all learn survival skills, but some of us do.”

“It’s… not what we heard about city-mechs.” – Sidewise admitted – “I thought only Vosians leave their city regularly and they fly, so it’s different anyhow. And some cities trade, but that’s only a few mechs. Maybe it’s only your city that’s different. Protihex, you called it?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Is it nearby? Your caravan looked… somehow fresh out of the city.”

The glance Jazz cast back at him was perplexed.

“Don’t you know the area? It’s… not hidden or anything and we do trade quite a lot.”

“We are… far from our usual paths. The clan war chased us far northerly than we ever got before.”

“Ah see. So… Ah might know more ‘bout this place than you?”

“Prowl knows a bit more… but our elders are lost and with them the knowledge they might have had.”

“So… yer basically a pack o’ younglings who have no idea where you are?”

Sidewise growled at the insolent mech, wings rising behind him. He was young, true, but not _that_ young!

“Insults won’t help your case!”

“Do Ah have a case?”

“Of course! I mean… we’d like you to stay. I would like you to stay. Give us a chance. But the way you behave… it’s confusing.”

Jazz’s answering look was unimpressed.

“What did you expect? Ah’m a prisoner an’ expected to become a mate fer one of ya. It’s not exactly mah choice.”

“But…” – Sidewise looked at their guest with sensor wings flared high and optics wide – “… we made sure you’re comfortable and cared for… nomech harmed you in any way… and any of us would love to have you as a mate. Why are you so… against it? Are we that bad?”

Jazz actually stopped in answer, yanking at the leash and gaping at him. Sidewise stopped too, to give him time to collect himself.

“Ye’re not… serious? Asking me why Ah don’t wanna be yer mate? Because Ah don’t want to be anymech’s mate!”

“You… don’t want… sparklings?”

“Well, maybe in time.” – Jazz shrugged and his glance shifted for a klik to a black and white mech moving way ahead of them – “if Ah find a mech I like to be with and want to settle down… maybe.”

“What does settling down has to do with sparklings?” – it was just the first question that tumbled into Sidewise’s processor, but the rest weren’t long to follow – “Why can’t you find this mech among us? Why taking so long?”

Jazz sighed as they started off again, this time following the tribe. He saw the chieftain – Prowl, he remembered – occasionally glancing back at them, but he appeared to be trusting him not to try and escape during daylight. Damn, but the mech could drive, Jazz remembered from the previous orns. Jazz used to race a little in his youth and there weren’t many mechs who could challenge him in it – but Prowl, well, he was something. An’ a half at that. Sidewise was good too, but hopelessly young if his questions and whole demeanor was anything to go by. Nomech but a barely adult would be so much indignant at being called a youngling. Jazz snickered a little as he remembered the Praxian’s expression, but pulled his processor back to the task of explaining to a nomad youngster why forcing a mech into bonding was, well, plainly put it, wrong. It made an interesting drive till the evening camp. At least Sidewise was willing to listen to him.

-o-o-o-

Prowl wasn’t sure what has awakened him in the middle of the night cycle. The camp was quiet, the desert was its usual cold calmness and silence ruled his tent as well. But something still made him sit up and listen to the subdued noises of the camp, trying to find the errant one that woke him… but he found nothing out of ordinary. He stood then, slipping out of his tent to find the source of his unease, his anxiousness in the dark of the camp, walking silently among the tents, nodding to the guard when he noticed him, listening still and following his instincts. It was Sidewise’s tent he stopped at finally, though there were no more sounds coming out of it than the rest of the camp…

… but there was just one EM field inside instead of the two as it should be. Jazz’s field was always drawn tight to his frame, but Praxians didn’t wear their sensor wings just for decoration and Prowl’s senses were extremely acute even among his brethren. Folding the entrance back he cautiously stepped into the tent. Even before turning up the light crystal, he knew what happened. Sidewise’s venting were too shallow for recharge and his motionless frame too stiff for a natural recharge. The young mech had been knocked out and bound expertly and Prowl nodded at the masterful work of their wayward guest – how long Jazz was gone, Prowl didn’t know, but for a city mech, the escape was nothing sort of miraculous. Although Prowl has been revising his opinion of Jazz upwards ever since his first orns here, the escape was still surprising – Sidewise was, though young, but very fast and clever, with good, solid instincts.

Prowl squatted down by the young Praxian to check his condition – he was unharmed and the chieftain breathed a sigh of relief. He could accept Jazz escaping, though he was longing to have a turn courting him and maybe convince him to stay by his side – he liked the mech in a way Prowl never before liked anymech else and he was secretly happy at every mech Jazz turned down so far. But had he hurt Sidewise, the tribe would have wanted an energon-price and clever as the mech was, he wouldn’t be able to avoid a whole tribe out for his energon. This way, Jazz was gone and though Prowl felt inexplicably sad at that, it might have been for the best. 

While he pondered the ramifications of the city mech’s escape, Prowl unbound Sidewise and made sure the younger mech was all right. Sidewise’s chest of things was thrown open, so Jazz must have taken some supplies with him… Prowl's servo stilled on warm plating, his doorwings shot up at a sudden thought. Forcing calm, he stood with some urgency and went to check the open chest. One look was enough to make sure and the Praxian’s servo tightened, his mouth an unhappy line. He had to go and chase Jazz after all. The sextant was simply too important to allow to be stolen. Sidewise kept it because it was his Sire’s and Prowl encouraged him learn to use it to determine the tribe’s place and heading. It was good for the whole tribe if more mechs than himself could navigate the flat desert… he wasn’t even sure that Jazz could actually use the thing or just took it for looking valuable. City mechs, to his best knowledge used no navigational tools to lead their caravans from one city to another, they relied on marking the paths, which some tribes took delight in removing and leading them astray to be robbed and killed… but that was beside his problem now.

Prowl stood and left the tent and Sidewise to recover on his own. He woke up Smokescreen to tell him to keep the tribe here or nearby with the camp and that he had to go after Jazz. The tribe made good progress to the south, but they were still pretty far up from where they usually roamed. Ignoring Smokescreen’s annoying and knowing smirk he left the tent to find Jazz’s tracks. They were surprisingly well covered, but Prowl was, despite of his own youth a very good tracker and no city mech could hide signs from his senses. Soon he was leaving the camp, following the faint tracks in the moonlight.

As he drove beside the faint tracks left by the city mech, Prowl had time to think. It felt good to shed the responsibilities even just for the duration of the hunt. Prowl shouldered his tasks to the best of his abilities, he lead the tribe the best he could – but deep inside he knew that he did not want the position. He wasn’t one to enjoy leadership or even feel comfortable in it. Constantly second-guessing himself, unsure if he made good decisions or not, enduring all these mechs to look at him for guidance and orders, occasionally with criticism… no, he didn’t feel comfortable in the role at all. In time, he supposed, he could get used to it and all what was now new and uncomfortable would become more natural… but he wished he could jump straight to that time, bypassing this present stage.

And he had noone to lean on either. His Sire and Carrier were dead and Smokescreen was even younger than himself – and far more irresponsible. He had few friends among the remaining mechs in the tribe and none he could really confide in. Frag, he hadn’t even thought of taking a mate before the clan war and so he didn’t watch any of the unbonded mechs that way. And now… Prowl was sure that there was none in the tribe he would truly consider in that way. The stranger, Jazz woke such feelings in him that he thought nonexistent. Prowl swerved a little at the sudden realization. Yes… that was partly why he went after the mech. The sextant, while important, was more of an excuse than the real reason and he had better face it.

He gave the mech a choice, but Jazz showed no affinity to any of the tribe’s members so far, no willingness at all to stay with them and become a nomad mech. It was confusing, since he was far better versed in the desert ways than any city-mechs Prowl ever heard of – and he didn’t complain about nostalgia, his city friends or family either. Only the lack of choice was what apparently bothered Jazz. Prowl actually stopped and stilled in the middle of the quiet, nighttime desert to think of it. A mech’s life was full of situations where he had no choice but accept, cope and adjust to the best of his abilities. Whether it was a clan war forcing one to be an unwilling chieftain for the tribe – or someone from another tribe kidnapping one – or a city mech captured and cajoled to be a tribesmech, someone’s mate – what was the difference?

He would surely ask these from Jazz if he ever caught up with him. For right now, Prowl took in the collecting clouds and the coming acid rain. It wouldn’t happen this night cycle. Shaking out the emergency shelter, pulling it over himself and securing it to the ground, Prowl waited as the first drops knocked on the sturdy material and hoped that Jazz has taken one such with him from Sidewise’s tent. The rain wasn’t a real dangerous one, but without some protection frequent exposure could cause a mech’s systems to malfunction and make him vulnerable to predators prowling in the desert.

At least the place appeared to be deserted for as far around as they could see and scout – no tribes roamed nearby and no other nomads or caravans would complicate his quarrel with Jazz. Alone he might have a lot more chance of convincing the mech to stay… with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sextant - is not a kinky sex toy, but a real, existing tool of navigation that was used for centuries before GPS took over. In the barbarian AU only the nomads have and use it, the city dwellers, who travel rarely, don't.

**Author's Note:**

> An amusing, tho' imagined scene for the fic by [dragonofdispair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair):
> 
>  
> 
> [Jazz escapes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4050952)


End file.
